


someone's gotta help me dig

by dadvans



Series: college morty [1]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Abusive Relationship, College Morty, Dubious Consent, Incest, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 05:19:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4775141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dadvans/pseuds/dadvans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morty hasn't seen Rick in three years.  Rick needs Morty's fingerprints.  Rick always needs more than he asks for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	someone's gotta help me dig

Morty doesn’t go home during break anymore.  He hasn’t since Freshman year, and mom and dad agreed it was best after the incident with Rick crashing his spaceship into the east quad during orientation week.  That year he had spent winter break celebrating Hanukkah with his girlfriend Annie, and that summer he’d rented an apartment with two of his friends from his Social Research Methods class.  These days he sees his parents and sister when they come up to visit during Spring or Fall Break, and he sees his grungy five-bedroom off campus colonial as home, and

He hasn’t seen Rick in three years.

It’s not like he’s really thinking about it at two in the morning the last week of his Junior year, five stories up in Walden Hall’s empty computer lab finishing his thesis proposal for Geoff’s class, but--Geoff is sixty-three going on forty, fucking gorgeous with a mean sense of humor, and his Intro to Stratification class Morty took as a Freshman is the reason that Morty is a Sociology major now.  Geoff’s his favorite professor, and he makes time for Morty during office hours, or sometimes to just get a beer and talk about bullshit academia or whatever else, and Morty has steadily become addicted to the sound of praise coming from his mouth--anyway, there are similarities between Geoff and Rick that Morty doesn’t necessarily enjoy examining, and it’s only on sleepless three-day essay writing binges that he starts thinking about Rick and tries not to miss him and tries to avoid the meaning in that.  

Instead he distracts himself with thoughts of bed and home and taking a week off after the semester is over to just lay around in his underwear eating cereal from the box with his hands while he looks over his proposal one more time, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice anyone else enter the lab.  Walden Hall is the oldest building on campus, with unreliable heating, spotty wifi, and all the outdated, reject technology, which is why Morty doesn’t worry about coming here in the middle of the night wearing nothing but flannel pj pants and an old, smelly cross country jersey to print out his papers.  He doesn’t expect to run into anyone, and therefore offend anyone with his greasy, unshowered ass.

So of course the first time he sees Rick in three years is when he turns to collect his still-warm proposal from the printer, wearing the same disgusting pajamas he’s been marinating in for three days while stressing the fuck out over finals.  Rick’s leaning on the far wall near the printer, already having pulled the papers out of the tray and flipping through them, one eyebrow raised and a sneer curling with it.  

“‘H-h-hegemonic,’ Morty?  ‘Dichotomy,’ Morty?  Wow, they really got you uh, got you using big kid words here, I mean, wow, world’s fastest way to get your nerd ass kicked in uh--” he shuffles the papers like a deck of cards “--twenty-five pages, Morty, way to go.”  

Morty is too tired to be startled, deflating instead back into his chair.  Rick almost looks disappointed he’s not jumping out of his skin, but if college has taught Morty anything, it’s that you can become too tired to be angry.  Morty is more often, these days, resigned.  

“It’s an ethnography proposal,” he says sourly instead, arms crossing over his chest petulant and defensive.  

“Y-y-yeah, and it looks like every other ‘ethnography proposal’ I’ve ever seen.  Always knew you’d grow up to be a conformist withoUUUt my influence, Morty, God,” he says, eyes squinting as he goes back over the abstract page. “This is the most boring thing I’ve read in my life, Morty, and that is--that is saying something coming from the multiverse’s leading authority on dark matter, Morty, that is-- you should be embarrassed by this, no offense.”

“Thanks,” Morty says, not taking the bait.  “Can I have it now?  I-i-it’s due at eight AM and I, I really need sleep, Rick. I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but, look, it’s going to have to wait.  The uh, the end of spring semester is really rough, you know, I, I, I barely have depth perception right now, Rick, I’m so tired.”

Rick looks at him, unamused.  It’s harder to decipher Rick after years away from him, but Morty distantly feels like he should be unsettled or something.  And then Rick nods and rolls his eyes, walking the stack of sheets over to Morty.  

“Don’t worry, Mmmorty, I’m not here to uh, force you on some ‘traumatic adventure,’” he says, fingers curling into quotation marks after Morty hastily grabs the proposal out of his hands. “I just need your fingerprints.”

“You,” Morty repeats, “need my fingerprints.”

“God, not for anything illicit, Morty!” Rick says a little too loud, and Morty visibly winces.  “It’s--look, I made a safe like se-se-seven or eight years ago, plans for a new radiation gun, Morty, a-a-and I need them now.  But I knew people would want to get to it, people who would think it was my fingerprints to unlock the safe, Morty, so I used yours.  I, I dragged a safe into your room while you were sleeping and implanted them, and I didn’t save them, because I’m not a dumbass who just leaves the combinations to his most precious work lying around, Morty, a-a-and I didn’t expect you to fucking bail on me, so, anyway.  I need your fingerprints.  I thought I could get them in your sleep again, but apparently you’re too good for that now too, so.”

“Oh my God,” Morty says, clutching the papers against his chest.  His palms are sweaty, and he’s worried, distantly, of crumpling his proposal.  “Fine, whatever, just.  I give up.  What do you need to do so I can go home?  L-le-let’s get it over with.”

“Fine,” Rick agrees, taking a small tablet out of his lab coat. “It’s just like unlocking your precious iPhone, Morty, just hold your right hand on the tablet how it instructs you to.  PrREEEtty fucking painless.”

Morty reaches for it, but he’s surprised when Rick sits down in one of the old office chairs next to him and grabs his hand, pressing it against the tablet himself. It’s intimate and foreign the way Rick holds his wrist; his touch is delicate and precise, unfamiliar and clinical.  It’s completely unlike the way Rick used to tug him away by the back of his collar or grip his arm until he bruised.  

Rick, after all these years, looks the same.  But his touches are gentle, and Morty feels miserable about it.

“So,” he says, conversationally, as he moves Morty’s hand around the tablet.  “School is good?  Y-y-you still seeing that Angie chick?”

“Annie,” Morty corrects, “and no, we broke up freshman year.  But uh, but school is good, yeah.”

“Good,” Rick says, like this isn’t the first conversation they’ve had in years, “you uh, you don’t want to let relationships keep you from doing what you’re doing, even if it is wasting your life at some half-tier university.”

“Hey,” Morty says.

“What?” Rick says, one defensive hand going to his own chest as if to say, _me_? “Be honest with yourself about your poor life choices, Morty.  School is always a mistake.  Even if you have some hot professor named _Geoff_ , look, that’s a four-year fuck window you’re almost at the end of.”

“Hey!” Morty repeats, trying to pull his hand away, but Rick’s grip is deceptively strong, and he keeps Morty’s fingers pressed against the tablet somehow, maybe pulling himself closer in the process.  Morty looks down at the papers clutched in his other arm.  “I, I just really respect him as a professor, okay, he’s been really good to me.”

“Whatever,” Rick says, rotating the tablet. “You know what they say--’i,i,if you can’t do, teach,’ am I right? Then again, with sociology, I mean, are you going to do anything else?”

Morty bites his lip, fighting back all the defensive urges he has, knowing Rick will just tamp him down and hard like coffee grounds, just to show Morty exactly where he fits.  Eventually he just says, “Are you done yet?”

“Almost,” Rick says. “So, uh, what after Annie?”

“Nothing,” Morty lies, because he’s slept with people, but he hasn’t really seen anyone.  Annie broke up with him because he couldn’t get it up, and it’s been an issue with literally everyone else, and he’s been hoping--there has to be something fucked up with him that maybe Geoff could fix, like, maybe he just has a thing for older men.  “It’s none of your business, Rick.”

“J-ju-just tryna make conversation, Mmmmorty,” Rick says.  “It’s not my fault you’re embarrassed by your three year dry spell.”

“This isn’t uh, appropriate, Rick,” Morty replies, whipping his hand away from the tablet.  This time, Rick lets him.  

“Whoa, appropriate,” Rick says, looking at the fingerprint scans with a practiced eye.  “You would know all about _appropriate_ , Morty.”

Maybe it’s the way he says it--thick with mean humor--or the way he looks up at Morty when ‘appropriate’ slips out of his mouth a second time like a challenge, that Morty knows exactly what he’s talking about.  There’s a truth between them that Morty has been happy to deny for the past seven years, that he was almost positive that Rick didn’t know, and this is it:

Rick got Morty drunk on his sixteenth birthday.  They’d been flying back from Blips and Chitz, when Rick had pulled the flask out of his pocket and handed it to Morty instead of taking a big swig himself.  Rick was already riding the line between faded and blackout, the ship swaying through space in a way that Morty had learned to ignore over the years.  Bravely, he had thought himself, bravely he took the flask from Rick’s hand and took a pull, not ready for the burn of it, the way he would cough half of it back up and cry the rest of it out.

“Oh my God, Morty, d-d-don’t be such a bitch, Morty, c’mon, I got this thing deEEtailed like, two weeks ago,” Rick had said, even though the ship looked as filthy as it always did, but Morty was too afraid to wimp out, and honestly, desperately, curious, so he plugged his nose and tilted his head back and drank some more.  

By the time they were home, Morty was stinking, filthy drunk, face burning with it, his vision like his favorite ride at the state fair, the space ship that slowly pulled him against the wall as it spun too-fast until dots of light became lines of color.  He was clinging to Rick’s coat, cheek pressed against Rick’s arm, humming a song he didn’t know and letting Rick guide him out of the ship.  Rick had been saying on the flight back, “there’s something I wanna sh-sh-show you Morty, something I want you to see when we get back, something in the garage, Morty.”

So Morty had said, eyes closed, sleepily into Rick’s arm, “What were you gonna, what were you gonna show me, Rick?”

Rick had stopped, shrugged, and thrown himself on his cot, leaving Morty to stumble in place and find his own footing.  Morty’d focused on the way Rick’s shirt climbed up to show a sliver of belly when he laid down, focused on his thin skin and tight muscle, his ageless self that seemed so impenetrable and vulnerable all at once, and how he, Morty, in no discernible way, wanted it.

“I, I, I have no idea what I was talking about Morty, like, what in this garage haven’t you seen yet,” Rick had said.  His eyes were closed.

And Morty had thought, you, had shamelessly wanted for the first time in his life exactly one thing.  He stumbled over to Rick’s bed and collapsed next to him, arm reaching over so his fingers could rest tight around Rick’s bony waist.  

“You’re uh, you’re a real terror, Morty, you know that,” Rick said, moving into the touch.  Morty had laughed, wrapped a leg around his torso and sloppily maneuvered himself on top of Rick so his legs were straddling the whole of him, and his hands were on either side of his waist.

“Y-yeah?” Morty had said, no, laughed.  “What am I now?”

Rick opened his eyes then, one wider than the other, seemingly frustrated.  He scooted himself up a little bit on his elbows, but didn’t move to shove Morty off of him.

“You’re drunk, Morty,” he’d said softly, soft like his palm was when he reached up and cupped Morty’s cheek, soft like his mouth was when he stretched up and kissed Morty on the forehead, into Morty’s greasy bangs wet with gin sweats.  In the moment, it had felt like both a promise and a threat.  “Now get the fuck out of my room.”

For the longest time, Morty has thought that he was the only one to remember it, the too-close seconds they spent touching each other.  It’s burned in Morty’s memory like a scar, one he rubs his fingers over and over again, finding comfort in the raised tissue.  It’s a memory he beats off to, worships in the darkest part of himself, lurks in loathing over.  And it’s strange to be confronted with it, knowing that Rick has seen through him this entire time, ever since.

Rick takes in the awkward stance of him, still clutching papers to his chest with one arm, the other hand protectively balled up near his face.  He shakes his head.

“Fine,” Rick says, “Sorry, I, I, I, you know, forget it.  I got what I needed.  Have fun blowing your professor for that A-plus, because this,” he actually smacks the papers Morty is holding with the backs of his fingers, “this is a total piece of shit, Morty.”

Morty sucks a heavy breath through his nose as Rick pushes past him into the dark hallway outside the lab.  Walden Hall doesn’t have automatic lights, so the entire building is graced with darkness unless someone manually flips a few switches, and it can be eerie, or in this case, staggering to see someone disappear into it.  Not for the first time since Morty saw Rick three years ago, the defeated back of him, has Morty felt the pang of losing him forever.  

He jogs to the hallway, expecting to see the retreating flash of a labcoat down the far stairwell of the building, or the trail of a closing portal, or maybe nothing at all.  Instead he gets Rick’s rough, waiting hands pushing his chest into the wall, and his whiskey slick mouth pressing against his own. 

Morty’s first instinct is just to moan into it.  He drops his papers and his knees go weak.  It wasn’t how he was thinking it would be, and he has thought about it-- that time with Rick, when he was sixteen, he remembers Rick leaning up to kiss his forehead and feeling like he was in a car crash, a certain lurch before the inevitable wreck that never came.  But now, sinking into it, it just feels like relief, the implications and years of denial and self-loathing escape him completely, and he just lets Rick kiss him in the dark of the hallway.

One of Rick’s hands slide up to tug at the nape of his neck, pinching at the small hairs there, pulling them apart.  “You,” he says, “you always made me feel like a real sick piece of shit, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, you know what?” Morty says, mouth swollen. He doesn’t continue.  He’s felt sick his entire life.

“I know everything, but ask me,” Rick tries, “ask me what I know.  Anything, Mmmmorty?”

Morty shakes his head a little, buries his thumbs into the belt loops of Rick’s jeans.  

“Thought so,” Rick says, “c’mere.”

Morty’s felt weary and sick from three days of no sleep already, and Rick’s hands on him make him feel like he’s falling apart, atoms splitting under Rick’s fingers, tiny fissures all over his body wherever Rick touches him.  Rick kisses rough and mean and desperate, like he’s trying to prove something, and Morty can only eagerly try to keep up with the way Rick licks into him, bites at his bottom lip, sucks in a deep, shaky breath through his nose when he feels Morty start to get hard in his flannel pajama bottoms.

“Maybe, uh,” Morty says, pawing at Rick’s chest a little, “maybe not here, uh, Rick?  In the--” Rick kisses his throat, bites, and Morty gasps, “--in! In, in, the hallway, maybe the hallway isn’t the best place for this.

Rick grabs him by the shoulders and steers him roughly into the nearest open classroom, kicking the door shut behind him.  The windows are open, and there’s light from the old, yellowing streetlamps outside that make the room dim enough to see.  Morty can see Rick’s outline in blues and oranges, hovering over him, though barely--he hit a growthspurt at sixteen that he was smug about for months.

Rick seems to be reading his mind as he walks Morty back into the classroom desk.  “You drove me crazy that summer, Morty,” he says.  His breath is hot on Morty’s face before he nips at Morty’s earlobe, his neck, hands sliding down to the elastic band of Morty’s pants.  “All grown up, still wearing fu-u-uh-king last year’s clothes.  Showing skin reaching for a goddamn glass on the top shelf in the kitchen, shit, Morty, y-y-you can stop an old man’s heart that way.”

“I wanted you,” Morty says, because he did then, and he does now.  He’s just always been too afraid to think it, let alone say it out loud.  

“I know you did,” Rick says, his hands easing down the back of his pants.  Morty scoots up where he’s half-perched on the desk so Rick can grab his ass, squeeze, stutter a groan.  “I know you did, Morty.”

Rick goes back to kissing him, which Morty concedes to, letting Rick knead at his ass while he thrusts clumsily against any part of Rick his dick can find.  He’s wanted to want people like this before, he’s wanted this reaction to come quick to him with everyone else he’s ever been with, and yet with Rick it comes despite the hesitation buried deep in his heart.

“I’m still mad at you,” he says, because he’s been mad at Rick for three years, been mad at him his entire life, has just been so consumed with wanting his attention, his affection, his approval, to be something more than a tool Rick reaches for in the middle of the night for--well, at least now he feels like he’s being met halfway.  

“Yeah,” Rick says, sliding one hand out of Morty’s pants so he can rub his palm up the underside of Morty’s hard dick tenting desperately towards Rick. “Te-tell me how mad you are.”

“Fucking furious,” Morty groans, head falling back as Rick peels his pants down to take him in hand and start jerking him off rough and quick.  He lets himself collapse back onto the desk, delirious with Rick’s hands all over him, choking out gasps at the heat of Rick’s fist, the solid sureness of it twisting around his dick with intent.

“Good,” Rick says, bending down to push the hem of his tank up with his nose, kiss his stomach, “good, Morty.  Y-y-you’re perfect like this, Morty, all pissed and desperate, look at you, Morty.”

Morty whines needily from the back of his throat.  “Oh yeah, Rick?” he says breathily. It comes out like a challenge.

“Yeah,” Rick says, like he’s sure of something.  He steps back to just tower over Morty and lets his hand travel down below where it’s been jerking him off, feel underneath his balls until he’s fingering at the crease of him, curling needily at his hole.  It’s a question Rick won’t ask out loud.

“Please,” Morty says.

“Yeah,” Rick says again, retreating.  The loss of him makes Morty feel exposed, pants pulled around his thighs and dick sensitive, leaking precome into his tank.  Rick is fumbling for something in one of his pockets.  “R-re-remember when you were younger, Morty, I taught you how, I taught you how to stick those seeds up your ass, Morty, remember, I showed you how.”

“Okay,” Morty says, propping himself on his elbows.

“Show me what you remember,” Rick says, finding a foil packet of lube in his back pocket and throwing it at Morty.  

“God,” Morty says, packet hitting his chest, the shame washing over him of being young and remembering the tears in his eyes when he opened himself up with his fingers for the first time, wanting so badly to impress Rick, to be wanted in a way he didn’t understand.  He still remembers, still fucks himself sometimes thinking about it late at night when the house is quiet.  He rips open the packet with his teeth anyway.  He gets his fingers messy with the stuff, waxy and slick, before curling an arm underneath himself to reach.

Rick stays back, barely illuminated by the lights from outside, but Morty can see the way he stands uncomfortable, adjusts himself quietly to hide how desperate he is for this.  Morty dips two fingers inside his hole, immediate and twisting and fervent, unafraid of Rick’s gaze on him as he starts to fuck himself.  Would Rick want him more if he was a virgin?  He tries not to think about it, and lets his fingers slide in and out of him, viscous and frenzied, ready for more.  

“You can,” he offers, breathy, even though Rick still hasn’t asked, probably never will, “please.”

“You’re killing me, Morty,” Rick says instead, but Morty can see the glimmer of his belt buckle as he undoes his pants, hears the _slink_ of denim to the floor.  Rick grabs him by the thigh and pulls him easily so his ass is hanging off the desk with one hand, rolling the band of his briefs down with the other.  “You’re gonna, gonna send an old man to his grave, Morty.”

Morty just hums uncontrollably and tries to breathe even and deep, because yeah, that’s Rick’s dick, that’s Rick slowly pushing into him thicker than a few fingers, hard as sin.  

“Oh,” he says.

“Fuck,” Rick says, “ _Fu-u-u-u-ck_.”

It takes Rick a few thrusts to be completely inside of him, the first few being little more than just his cockhead stuttering into him needily.  Morty’s asshole feels too hot and full all at once, but he finds himself rolling his hips up anyway, his entire body writhing up towards Rick until Rick takes his hand off his dick to get a tight grip over Morty’s collarbone to keep him down.  

“B-b-bet you imagined your professor, fuck, _Geoff_ ,” Rick says, “bet you imagined him fucking you a dozen times on this desk, didn’t you.”

“Yeah,” Morty admits, whines, Rick going deeper and deeper and deeper, drinking in the sound of skin slapping skin as Rick starts to fuck him with urgency, his grip around Morty’s shoulder and hip growing more possessive. “You, though--ah--you, always wanted --”

“I know,” Rick says, gathering Morty’s calves midfuck with both hands to throw over his shoulder.  Rick kisses his ankle, bending down over him, his dick driving deeper.  “God, yeah, like that.  T-t-touch yourself, Morty, wanna see you, gotta see you, gotta, please.  You’re beautiful, Morty.”

Morty nods, his hands having rested uselessly and shock still at his sides since Rick started fucking him, reaching down with one to tug at his dick, rubbing over the head a little extravagantly just to push himself to the edge, a few embarrassing noises leaving his mouth.  Rick seems satisfied with it, letting loose an _oh goddammit_ , that Morty isn’t sure he meant to say out loud by the roll of his eyes.  

“D’you think,” Morty asks, stutters, “d-do you, are you, are you gonna,”

“Yeah,” Rick says again, “yeah, I am.”

He wraps a tight grip around Morty’s calves, still bent over his shoulders, and between the angle and hot clutch, and God, everything, Morty is coming past his hand onto his stomach, all over his shirt with an embarrassing noise  that Rick chases with his own.  Morty can faintly feel the liquid heat inside him and wants more, feels distraught and unsatisfied with what he gets, Rick coming inside him shaking and groaning legato.

“Oh,” he says anyway, “wow.”

Rick collapses down on him, his legs slipping sweaty from his shoulder to the side as Rick buries his face in Morty’s neck.

“Th-that, Morty, that--”

“Was what you came for?” Morty suggests, before he can finish.  Rick slides a sweaty hand up and down his side, underneath his now come-stained tank, like he’s agreeing with him.  Morty tries not to believe this is where he is, tries not to believe in the hard wood of the desk beneath him or the old man on top of him, exhausted and cruel and ultimately missed.

Rick smooths the bangs out of his eyes again, weight still heavy on top of him.  It takes a few seconds for him to get off, for him to pull out and cup himself in hand delicately. “Y-yeah.  You called it, Morty.  Just wanted to interrupt your essay writing to give you a-a-a big, hard dicking, Morty.  This wasn’t about maintaining intergalactic peace at all.  J-j-just you, Morty.”

“Well,” Morty says, before realizing, “shit! My paper, Rick! I, I, I dropped it out there!”

“No shit, Morty,” Rick says dryly, zipping his pants back up, pulling his coat a little tight around his shoulders.  “I totally wasn’t there for that, didn’t witness that at all.”

“Whatever, Rick, you--never mind,” Morty says, wriggling his hips up, pants in hand to get back into them.  

“No, I get it, Morty,” Rick says, stepping away from the door he kicked closed, “you do what you gotta do.  J-j-just remember what I said--”

“Yeah,” Morty says.  “No thanks.  I’ll, uh, I’m sure Geoff’s an easy grader compared to uh, you, I guess.  Anyone, maybe.”

“That too,” Rick says, and Morty’s lost now, completely.  He looks up to Rick for answers, but Rick’s busy pulling out his portal gun, setting coordinates.  On the inside, Morty feels emptier than ever.  Rick continues, “well, maybe I’ll see you around, uh.  Thanks for the fingerprints, Morty.”

When Rick opens the portal in the middle of the classroom, Morty instinctively tries to follow, until it closes immediately before he can try.  It hurts in a way that Morty doesn’t want to think about, feeling hollowed out and used up already.  He’s got Rick inside him, his marks all over his person, a distant fantasy that’s echoed in the emptiest parts of him for the past three years.  He doesn’t feel less empty now.  

He pushes himself off the desk, pants too-wet as he walks over to the door to open it up, sees his papers spread across this end of the hall.  “You’re welcome,” he says, leaning over to pick them up one by one.

 

**Author's Note:**

> extra thanks to [scarecrowfan](http://scarecrowfan.tumblr.com/) for the last minute beta, and major, as always, for the cheerleading (even when it got gross). if u wanna talk or u wanna shame me, come at me on [tumblr](http://dadvans.tumblr.com/)


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